


just follow my yellow light

by knightcaptain



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Artist Amell, Cullen is a model, F/M, Painting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-18
Updated: 2016-07-18
Packaged: 2018-07-24 17:31:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7517053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/knightcaptain/pseuds/knightcaptain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An ambitious artist picks out a model and finds herself drawn, above all else.</p>
            </blockquote>





	just follow my yellow light

**Author's Note:**

> Wrote this some months back at the height of my Cullen/Amell fever.

_Are you really gonna love me when I’m gone?_

_I fear you won’t;_

_I fear you don’t._

 

 

It's not so much that she's a terrible artist or an amateur painter – she's done this for _years_ , and fuck anyone who turns their nose up at her and calls her a hopeful college upstart – but it's more like she's slipped into a period of constant, exasperating _non_ -inspiration. Jowan insists she take a break and come back with a fresh perspective on things, but she can't afford that, not when the exhibition's coming up in a month and Irving is hounding his protégé for something "substantial". Greagoir's constant pessimism may or may not be a contributing factor weighing down on her brows as she glares at the white sheet before her, and not even Bethany's encouraging, cutesy text messages can soothe the restless stirring inside. Her palette's dried up by the time she comes up with a shadow of an idea, sitting by the window in the afternoon sun, and with a huff Amell leaves her tools and empty canvas behind for her work desk.

She pulls out the chair – and a cigarette from her back pocket – and starts up the laptop with a quick tap of the power button. Wedging the stick between her teeth, she nearly forgets about the lighter as Google Chrome lights up and she types in quickly, "Somebody fucking help an artist." Of course, it's ridiculous – what's she going to find, anyway? Just forums upon forums on artistic thought processes, or shoddy WikiHow pages on getting inspiration (as if sitting outside on a bench ever did Amell any good). She reaches absently for the lighter hidden beneath stray newspaper cutouts, flicks the flame to life and takes a deep breath when the cigarette catches it.

Exhaling a trail of smoke, Amell brushes the hair from her eyes and scrolls down the search result page. Link after link of nothing particularly useful, Amell almost gives up when something catches her eye, on the dreaded Page Two of Google search results.

_Freelance model looking for casual work._

She raises a brow, and against her better judgement – because you don't resort to _Craigslist_ , no matter how desperate you are – clicks on it.

She expects a badly done, half-hearted write up belonging to someone looking for a quick fuck under the pretense of building their portfolio. She expects, also, a pompous drama student from Juilliard looking for something "extracurricular" to pass the time before they move on to Broadway, to greater things –

Well, simply put, she doesn't expect someone like _him_.

"Cullen Rutherford..." she rolls his name on his tongue tentatively, like tasting something new. His brown eyes are impossibly warm, and his hair – well. He's almost unreal. At the back of her throat, she makes a decidedly approving noise.

"Let's see if you're not a serial killer then, _Cullen_."

* * *

It is Tuesday afternoon when he arrives at her door, promptly at the agreed upon timing. Amell's cleaned up her studio apartment, for some unspoken reason, and while the fact that she can see her floor again unnerves her, it's the guy standing on the other side of her door that unnerves her even more. He can't be real, she thinks again, distractedly, as she peers through the peephole.

And yet, there he is. Plain white shirt, dark blue jeans – and those same, impossible eyes. She almost wants to ignore him, send him away – but she hasn't had an actual model in ages. Not since art school. The human form bothers her little; she just doesn't fancy prolonged interaction with strangers, least of all with people posing for hours. Abstract art, surrealism – those are her areas of expertise. But Irving wanted her to challenge herself, said he believed she could be more than the box she's settled herself into.

Cullen tilts his head, looking directly into the peephole. Amell blinks, stunned for a moment. Oh, right.

She unlocks the door and he's there, looking at her with a half-smile, uncertain. Like a first-timer. He probably is, she thinks. And then she remembers to smile, too, and stretches out a hand.

"Hi," she says. "You must be Cullen."

He takes her hand – gentle grip. Like he's afraid to crush her, or something. Or maybe she's just reading too much into it. "And you must be –"

"Yep." Smoothly, her hand slips out of his. "Come on in, you can put your bag by the couch."

He makes a noise that sounds vaguely like gratitude and trails into the apartment after her, setting down his bag by the couch. She's already prepared the paint, palette and canvas – now they just have to get over this next bit. Of course.

"So," she says, turning around to face him as she lowers herself onto the stool, "Tell me about yourself. Why you put up that ad, where you're from, that kinda stuff."

"Ah." He nods once, frustratingly polite. "I'm from London. Decided to come to New York to freelance, scout possibilities – er, you know. Modeling and all that. Haven't been able to get any decent gigs, yet."

"Tough crowd, artists. They pick and choose as much as models do." Amell cracks a grin. "It's much harder if you choose Craigslist to put up ads."

A shade of pink, across his cheeks. Cullen opts to respond with a weak shrug, and a hollow laugh. "I was desperate."

That makes both of us, Amell thinks. She crosses her arms. "Well – just don't get yourself killed, English. I'm not a serial killer, thankfully. I just need you to sit on a stool for half a day. Can you do that?"

"Sounds easy enough."

A beat passes. She looks him up and down, half-appreciative, half-calculating. "I also need you to strip."

He coughs. "Sure."

"Great," she stands, turning her back to him to prepare her paints and brushes. "Hop to it."

* * *

She very easily admits that he's well-formed, though she says nothing throughout the entire process. Just focuses on the canvas, occasionally flicking her gaze in his direction – and he's always pointedly staring elsewhere, like he's searching the ceiling for an answer to an unspoken question. It amuses her, it does, but she doesn't address it, doesn't talk to him – just drags her brush across the canvas in practiced gestures, doing what she does best. It's the freest she's felt in a while, with something concrete to paint.

Somewhere down the line it begins to feel far more intimate than it's supposed to be, once she begins coloring and shading his curves, leaving his face for last. Then his eyes are on her and his lips slightly parted, a question at the tip of his tongue.

"Hm?" she manages, still focused entirely on his thigh – the one she's painting, that is.

"What will you do with the painting, once you're done?"

"Oh." Her brows furrow when she almost makes a mistake. A strangled groan escapes. "Uh. I mean, I was thinking of putting this up at an exhibition next month."

"Ah."

"I mean... I'm not going to hang it up here and stare at it everyday."

"Oh, of course not." He seems very embarrassed at the thought. She casts him a quick glance, wondering how on earth somebody so good-looking can be so... shy. "That _would_ be weird."

"Uh huh." She tuts softly. "Turn your head a little to the left, please."

"My left?"

"Yeah. Almost done."

An approving hum. Not that she needs it. "You're good at this."

She smirks. "I know."

* * *

He's dressed in several minutes, and saunters over to her side to get a look at the final product. Amell swears she sees him blush, but the evening light makes it hard to tell. She's distracted with the way his hair looks in sunlight, and uncomfortably slips past him to get to her desk, reaching for her half-finished cigarette.

"This is... perfect," she hears him murmur, almost reverently.

"Big ego," she mocks him, knowing full well it's not his own body he's referring to. Testing.

"That wasn't –" he turns to look, and stops when he sees her smirking. "Oh. You're making fun of me."

"Obviously." She takes a long drag. "Here, I haven't paid you yet." Exhale. "We agreed on 150?"

"We did." He forgets the painting and approaches her, that same look of gratefulness in his eyes. "Thank you for having me."

"Thanks for cramping up your ass for me." Her smirk softens, just a little. "I hope you find better gigs out there."

"I hope so too." He runs a hand through his hair, chuckling lightly. His gaze returns to the portrait of him; her eyes follow, too, and for a moment they just look at the man on her canvas.

“I wish I could do that,” he says, so softly that Amell almost doesn’t hear him. But she does, gaze flickering back to him, and he glances back.

It’s out before she can stop herself, feeling eager for one reason or another: “I could teach you.”

The corner of his mouth twitches, and there’s a new gleam in his eyes. Suddenly, Craigslist doesn’t seem… too bad. “Are you going to charge me for that,” asks Cullen, a playful lilt in his voice.

Amell crosses her arms, pretending she isn’t at all fazed by the lopsided grin on his face.

“We’ll have to see.”

* * *

Coffee, he suggests the next week, when they both find some time out of their schedules to meet. Sure, she hates caffeine, doesn't believe in its powers, but he seems to like the stuff enough to get a venti. She goes for green tea instead, seated across him with a sketchbook in her lap. She’s placed her favorite watch on the table between them, and hands him a blank piece of paper, out of her own book. After sparing him a pencil, she leans back and indicates the watch with a lazy wave of her own.

“Impressions,” she says first. “Not about getting it right. Not about replicating what you see.”

“So my art teacher has tried telling me before,” he quips, eyeing the watch.

“Well, it’s a lot like - _feeling_ , I guess. God, I hope that doesn’t sound pretentious. Here -” she leans forward, flicking her pencil across the page for him to see, “- it’s a little bit like forming your first impression of a person. You don’t know everything about them - yet. But you get a rough idea. Like how I thought you were a total idiot for getting on Craigslist.”

Cullen shifts, slightly, in his seat. “Ah. Do you still think that?”

Amell suppresses a smile. “Relax, tiger. It’s only been a week.” She taps the table with the butt of her pencil, noting the way his shoulders sink imperceptibly. “Pay attention, in any case.” _Flick_. “I’m not getting the little details in first. See? I’d drive myself insane, and I’d quit art completely.”

“Mm.” He is transfixed on the movement of her hand. “Just - feeling.”

“Yeah.” She stops. Lowers her pencil. “Your turn.”

Color drains from his cheeks, just slightly. His back has straightened. Cullen starts off slow, lightly dragging the pencil across the page before realizing he’s doing the exact opposite of what she’s teaching him, and tries his best. When his head is bowed and he’s fixated on his own work, Amell steals a moment to admire his earnestness, his desire to actually make something out of nothing.

Minutes later, he punctuates his attempt with a sigh. “Alright.” He shows her what he’s done. “What do you think?”

She hums thoughtfully, leaning forward. “Not bad for a first try. You maybe need to constantly look at what you’re drawing. Not trying to memorize it and reproducing it by sheer will alone.”

Cullen nods, deep in thought. “I’ll remember that.”

“Try again.” She flips the paper over. Anew. “We’ll see how you do a second and third time.”

“I’m going to need another cup of coffee.”

“Nonsense.” She grimaces, though really, she’s amused. “To work.”

* * *

The second week, once he’s acquired a decent grip on sketching, she teaches him shading. They’re at the same coffee place again, and the baristas seem to recognize them - somewhat. She doesn’t know for sure, or care. Too busy being amazed at how clueless Cullen is, with his back turned to their stares. She shakes her head, chuckling softly to herself as he works on shading, pencil tip tilted the way she’s showed him.

It’s his coffee mug, this time. Not her watch. He’d likely get lost in all the details, she thinks. Something simpler would be better for him, his eyes - and takes far less work.

“Doing well,” she remarks. “You’re picking and choosing what you see - not getting overwhelmed by the entirety of it.”

“Cups aren’t terrifying,” Cullen quips. She raises a brow. Backtalk, from him? A week isn’t that long - then again, they _have_ been texting relentlessly. Amell tells herself it’s because he really _is_ that hopeless at drawing, and that he needs all his questions answered. Not because, well - she looks at him, his brow tight with concentration. Why think of that, anyway, she thinks to herself. This is casual. She’s considering charging him for these lessons, too. He probably won’t like that very much. Probably.

“Just wait until I get you to draw real people,” Amell fires back, languid.

He looks up, eyes bright with interest. “That’ll be the day, wouldn’t it?”

She’s blindsided by it, the hopeful curve of his lips. She looks down into her own mug, staring at the steam swirling up and out.

“Don’t get ahead of yourself, Picasso. Still got a long way to go.”

He’s still smiling when she looks up at him. Unbelievable. She’s going to make him draw more complicated objects, next time around.

* * *

“You’re teaching the model how to draw? Really?” Jowan cocks his head, squinting. Disbelief. “Two weeks ago you were screaming about how you can’t put anything to paper.”

“I know,” Amell shrugs. “But after our session - well. It was good, alright? At least be happy I’ve got something for Irving’s thing next month.”

“I am. I’m also suspicious.” Jowan’s eyes narrow even further, if it’s possible. “You mentioned… Craigslist? So… did you…”

Amell catches the implication, the other half of the question Jowan refuses to say aloud. She leans forward and swats at his arm with her sketchbook. He jumps back, but not quickly enough - he yelps in pain as she catches him with the edge of it.

“We didn’t _sleep together_ , if that’s what you’re saying!”

“Well, how should I know?” Jowan whines, rubbing his arm. “It’s Craigslist. That’s like… 4chan, or something! And he was naked! And apparently _gorgeous_?”

“Shut your face. We didn’t,” she reasserts, glaring at him. “Why, are you jealous?”

Jowan rolls his eyes. “Please. I’m just horrified you resorted to that website of all things.”

“Eh.” Amell shrugs again. “What’s done is done. And you know what? He’s pretty decent company. And a fast learner.”

“He’s _pretty_ , is what you’re saying.” Jowan huffs. “This Colin must really be cute to get you so defensive - ow!” A second swat. He deserves it, of course.

“His name is Cullen, you dork.”

“Mmm. Husband material?” Jowan smirks, despite having just been hit a second time. The gall, really - Amell rolls her eyes, refusing to answer, though that question sets her heart aflutter, for one reason or another.

* * *

Week three. Amell can hardly believe it, but he’s ready to try sketching people. The familiar scent of coffee in the air. She finds it strange not to smell coffee these days, even though she loathes the stuff. Still, they serve tea, and she takes little issue with that. They’re seated in the corner today, pencil and paper at the ready. Quickly, she turns to give the entire cafe a sweeping gaze. “Pick anyone, really,” she says, turning back to Cullen. “Preferably someone who’s going to be stationary for a while - long enough for you to get something out on paper.”

“The man over there, reading the paper?”

She looks again. “Sure.” Then, she gets to her feet and joins him on the other side of the table. “Remember, you’re not supposed to get lost in the details. For the moment, he isn’t human - just your subject.”

“You don’t see your subjects as human?” He glances at her.

“Well - you know, in a way. Pick the things that are essential about them. Look out for the aspects of him that strike you.” She hums. “I suppose it’ll be much easier to draw somebody you know. When you know them, you’re able to remember more - you know, the way they move, how they posture themselves at the table, their personality. Things you remember about them when they’re away. It’s _intimate_ , I guess. But we’ll have to settle for the stranger over there for now.”

“For now,” he says, and gets right to work.

It’s really something, Amell thinks, watching his right hand. Not too shabby for a first try, she concedes to herself. But still - “Just a little hard on the edges, I think. He’s not a block of wood.”

“Mmm.” Cullen’s brow furrows, endearing in his determination. “You do this for a living? Taking people apart?”

“I don’t actually use human subjects a lot - until three weeks ago.” She sniffs, taking a sip of her tea. “My art style’s a little more abstract. I like to make sense by not making sense.”

“That makes only a little bit of sense.”

“Exactly.”

“So you drew me before you knew me - would anything change now, if you did so again?”

She looks up, considering. “Maybe. I don’t know. Why, do you want to model for free, now?”

“Well -” His eyes flicker in her direction, warm. Inviting, even. “Just to see if there’s a difference.”

She leans back, forgetting her own sketch. “Mmm. We’ll have to see. I don’t know if I’ve got the time.”

“Tonight?”

What. “Tonight?”

He shrugs. “My friends are out of town. I could, if you’re up for it.”

“...Maybe.” She peers at his drawing. “Work on your shading, Rutherford.”

And he does. She hides behind her mug of tea, watching him carefully as if expecting him to spring up and leave at any moment. It’s ridiculous, this irrational fear that he will suddenly decide to focus fully on his modeling career and leave behind what he’s achieved so far in such a short span of time - Amell decides not to wonder if it’s missed potential she’s concerned about, or his company. It’s an affecting thought, and she suddenly, achingly needs a cigarette.

She doesn’t move, though. He’s finished before she finishes her tea, and she takes the drawing out of his hands, scanning.

“Not too bad. You see him as a stiff, serious man?”

“He _does_ resemble my physics teacher from high school.”

She snorts. “Good enough, I guess. I want you to work on more sketches on your own time. In different lighting, each time. It’ll be good for you.”

“I have homework now?”

“If you’re serious about learning, that is.”

“I am.”

She meets his gaze. “Good. Now, are you going to finish that coffee so we can head to my place, or what?”

She decides that she likes it when he’s flustered, caught off guard - it’s so much more authentic. Genuine. People tend to lack that… essence, these days. She realizes she’s staring and quickly gets to her feet, reaching for her sketchbook. He’s staring, too, but she pretends not to notice.

* * *

The second time around, she catches his likeness more quickly - as if she’s done this a million times. She has, of course, but in her head. She doesn’t tell him that, especially not when he’s leaning so close to her, grinning at the new portrait.

“It’s different,” he comments, polite as ever.

“ _Better_ ,” she supplies, crossing her arms. “I like this one better than the last, actually.”

“I can see why. Use this one, then.” He turns to her. “For your exhibition.”

“Maybe I will.” She half-nods, distracted. He’s too close, again. Hard to breathe - not from the paints - and hard to think. Absently, she touches his arm. The paint on her fingers is still wet, so they both jump back in surprise -

“Sorry,” she says. “Didn’t realize.”

“It’s fine.” Something else is weighing on his voice. “Wouldn’t be the first time you painted me.”

“Very funny,” she says. He takes half a step closer, gaze heavy.

“I mostly do photo shoots,” he says softly, brown eyes returning to the painting. She feels hollow, for just a second or two. “I don’t know, but there’s something about the way you draw me that just… strikes me. It’s more me than I’ve ever been.”

“That’s because I’m actually seeing you.”

“What _do_ you see? When you look at me,” he asks.

The answer catches in her throat. She forgets to step back when he moves closer, and when he leans in she brings her hands up to his chest, stained with red, blue, lilac, green. He looks down, startled, before smoothing out his shock with a shy smile. “Well?”

Her mind is whirring - noisily. She speaks, her words disjointed and jagged and misshapen. Trying to piece it all together, how she got here, how _he_ got here. “Some idiot who decided Craigslist was going to get him anywhere at all. But he’s - honest. _Good_. Unbelievable,” she hisses the last word, fingers curling around the fabric of his shirt. White. Plain. A canvas. She blinks.

“ _I’m_ unbelievable,” Cullen repeats, soft. Amusement dances in his eyes. Charming - very charming, she thinks.

“You are,” she insists, weak. Her hands tug lightly at his shirt, and he follows along - tilting his head so he can kiss her. Soft. Sweet. His lips taste like autumn - she wonders how that’s possible. And his hands -

She’s getting paint all over his skin, but he doesn’t seem to notice or mind. Least of all when he pulls off his stained shirt, lets her close, hands on his chest, fingers idly tracing his collarbones, _sketching._ She kisses him again, disbelieving till the very last, and swears she tastes his smile. She savors it, painting him anew with her fingers, translating him into wordless poetry: tongue on skin, mouth against his quivering jaw.

* * *

He flips through her mother’s old sketchbook, draped in her sheets, and smiles when he finds a drawing of Amell herself - six-years young, playing with a cat. Daisies in her hair. He absently runs a thumb over the dried watercolor, fond. Immensely fond. Amell doesn’t understand it - he doesn’t know her very well, but his gaze is adoring. It unnerves her some, but her heart is doing backflips and she decides it’s safe to let him close. She sinks back into bed, peering at the sketchbook.

“You always were this cute, then,” he finally says, like a statement of fact. Not a question.

“If you say so,” she shrugs, leaning against the curve of his arm.

“I do say so.” He’s flipping backwards, now. Amell catches a glimpse of her father, impossibly youthful and intelligent-eyed. “This is…?”

“Dad.”

“You have his eyes.”

Amell hums. “I suppose I do.”

“This feels… personal. People keep photo albums but your mother keeps this - well. She loves you both very much, I can tell. There’s nothing in here but you and your father.”

For a moment, her eyes glaze over. Away from her father’s face. Her words are distant and short. “Loved. Not loves.”

“Beg pardon?”

“Loved,” she says again, stiff. “Kept.”

His arm curls around her. She hears the book close shut, a rush of air, and he’s back in the present. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs in her hair.

“You didn’t know.”

* * *

He leaves the next morning after promising he’ll be at the exhibition - no matter how much it’s going to embarrass him. _Also - could I borrow some brushes and paint, I just want to try something for a bit. Thank you. I’ll see you around, of course_. She smiles, settles for a kiss goodbye - and closes the door when he leaves. Left alone, Amell returns to the dining table where she’s abandoned her mother’s book. Flips through it, distracted, and finds her mother’s self-portrait. So much of her here Amell hadn’t seen in the last year of her life - that smile, radiant and dazzling, and the twinkle in her eyes. Drawn through referencing her wedding photos, Amell remembers Revka saying. Otherwise it wouldn’t look half as optimistic.

And then her father. Dashing, kind and sincere. He loved Revka until her last breath, until he found her peacefully asleep in bed, clutching the bottle close to her chest, the pills scattered across her throat and nightgown like stars. He left, years after, leaving Amell in the care of Irving. Wynne had seen to most of her needs, while Irving channeled her energy into art. Revka had been so good at it, he said. You possess some of that talent yourself.

She took to painting her emotions. Dark, angry colors and violent strokes of the brush. It became her signature, and it grew with her. Irving admired it. Hung it up for all to see. Immortalizing her pain. Pushed her for more. She has never told him - I’m not a painter. _(Why did you leave me?)_ I write letters. _(All you cared about was her. Enough. Enough. I don’t ever want to see you again.)_ You probably wouldn’t get it.

She sighs, sharp and pained. Pinches the bridge of her nose, stemming the oncoming migraine. No use. She wonders if she should burn the book - tell Cullen she’s lost it. So he’ll never look at it again, never find the chance to talk about her parents again.

She drums her fingers on the tabletop, suddenly anxious. Reaches for her phone, gets a text out to him. She wants to see him again. _Husband material_. She scoffs, half a smile formed. Maybe. He makes her forget everything else. Maybe that’s enough.

_Dinner tonight? I’m thinking Italian._

She places the phone on the counter. Distracted with the memory of his sigh against the inside of her thigh. He gives himself far too little credit. She wants to tell him that - maybe she will. Tell him what she’s seen last night, with his head between her legs -

Her head is clouded with it. With him. She wonders - foolishly - if he’s thinking of her, too.

* * *

He doesn’t reply.

She’s still sitting at the dining table, fingers drumming relentlessly against the rumble of thunder outside. The sun has set, and she’s nearly done with waiting.

She shivers when the rain hits. Fear grips her, holds her in bed. She doesn’t close her eyes, but watches the lightning flash outside. The storm doesn’t shake her quite as much as his absence. It doesn’t compare to the way he says her name, a low sound, a desperate thing. He’s the rainstorm - and her? The battered reed, wanting nothing more than to be swept away.

Madness.

* * *

He texts her an hour before the exhibition.

_I’m so sorry. Only just saw this. We can do dinner after the exhibition? Italian sounds great._

She lets out a breath she’s been holding.

What on earth has he done to her?

* * *

He’s there - with his friends. The redhead, Leliana, smiles sweetly at her. There’s another girl, Sera - constantly cackling while hanging off his arm, pointing at his portrait. Thom is silent, but he nods in acknowledgement when Amell looks his way. Approving, almost. But she can’t stop staring at Sera, at her hand over his arm -

“This is her, yeah,” Sera says, patting Cullen lightly before sauntering over to Amell’s side. Hand outstretched - slender fingers and mismatched, painted nails. Badly done, too. “Good on ya. Got him naked before any of us did.”

“Sera,” Leliana chides, adoring, as Amell takes Sera’s hand numbly. “Why do we even let you out in public?”

“I get us free drinks, innit? Sometimes. When Oghren isn’t being shite.” She turns back to Amell, mischievous glint in her eyes. “He any good?”

“I - what,” Amell says, stunned.

“Cully Wully!” Sera snorts, retracting her hand. “You shagged him, didn-”

Leliana claps a hand over her mouth. The shorter girl laughs, a muffled, wild sound. “Sera!”

“For fuck’s sake,” Thom mutters, though he’s grinning.

“I mean… it’s _true_.” Sera wriggles free of Leliana’s hold and winks at Amell. “Mm?”

“I think that’s enough,” Cullen chimes in at last, impossibly red in the face. He offers her a silent apology with his eyes, and it soothes Amell somewhat. Maybe. He makes his way over to her and offers her his hand. “Show me around?”

She slips her hand into his. Simple. Natural. It terrifies her, just a bit. “Sure. You can meet Jowan and the others,” she says, just as Sera is dragged away, screaming madly, _“HIS MIDDLE NAME IS JIM!”_

As suspected, Jowan shoots Cullen plenty of uncomfortable questions. Greagoir mostly ignores the bunch of them, leaving Irving to make nice, and skulks around the gallery like a disgruntled security guard. Not that anyone’s violently objecting. The Hawke twins are off somewhere, presumably trying to locate their elder sibling before somebody slips on a banana peel, or steps on a fake lizard. Cullen is pleasantly surprised to discover that the Hawkes are Amell’s cousins, but before he can further ask, Amell sweeps him away and continues the tour.

“So,” she says, eyes ahead, “What were you up to last night?”

He coughs lightly into a fist. “Oh, nothing. Just - distracted with something. Small. Not anything… important. I was with the others.”

“No?” Her tongue is heavy with something, skirting close to accusation - but she doesn’t have the right. Not yet. It’s only been a month, after all.

“Phone’s battery went flat, too.” His gaze is elsewhere, now. Feigned interest at a rather badly put together mosaic. He’s terribly authentic - and transparent. She clears her throat, gaze following his.

“Cullen!” A voice, to their left, catches both their attention. She feels Cullen’s hand tighten around hers - but she could be imagining it. And then she sees her - _Surana_ \- stepping out of the crowd, a vision. She scowls and looks away, like a defiant child facing their parent against their will.

“Surana,” his tone is dripping with warmth, and something else she cannot place. “I thought you were going to be out of town.”

“Change of plans - Alistair and I decided to stay for the exhibition. Really, he just wants to Instagram everything. Had a good rest last night?” She touches his arm lightly, fondly. “I’m so sorry we wasted so much time reminiscing instead of, well.” Her eyes slide over to Amell. A curt nod.

“I hadn’t realized the both of you knew each other,” Cullen says, unnaturally quick with his words. He’s not looking at Amell, just hanging onto her fingers with his. “This is - well. A pleasant surprise.”

“Speaking of surprises,” Surana grins, winking at Cullen. Something unspoken, a secret shared. It grinds Amell’s nerves. “Look, don’t let me keep you. Alistair’s probably lost, somewhere. I should go fetch him. I saw your portrait, by the way -” Now her eyes are on Amell again. Unreadable. Veiled. Many unpleasant memories return to her. ( _Consider that perhaps daddy found you more troublesome. Perhaps you remind him too much of her._ ) “Very thoughtfully done.”

“Thanks,” Amell manages. Her eyes follow Surana’s retreating back, and suddenly it’s difficult to be near Cullen.

“Listen,” he begins, painfully gentle, but she’s already slipping her hand out of his.

“I’ll catch you later, maybe. Maybe we should do dinner tomorrow night instead.”

She can hear the hurt in his voice when he calls her name. Her hands shake, the frightened rattling in her bones becoming too much to bear, and disappears into the crowd. She slips out the back door after retrieving her things and heads straight home, against Jowan’s alarmed protesting. Fury in every line of her body. Betrayal - ridiculous. Not right now, she says. Not the time. She’s sick to the stomach - says it’s the bad taco she had for lunch.

She can lie better than that, but it eats away at her far more than she dares to admit.

* * *

He’s at her door - of course he is. She wraps herself in her blanket, pointedly ignoring the soft, rapping noises and his muffled voice on the other side. She busies herself with the stick she’s rolling between her fingers and the table surface, before sticking it between her teeth and lighting it up. Her head grows light and she leans back, sighing contentedly, before finally sliding off her chair.

He’s still on the other side, persistent, _pleading_. She considers just going to sleep, but - no. Sentiment is a stubborn thing. She disdainfully eyes her mother’s sketchbook, wedged in between a world atlas and the Oxford dictionary on the shelf, pressed up against the other side of the apartment, and reluctantly reaches for the door.

He falls silent when he sees her, lips parted. She stares at his mouth a split second too long, and finds it difficult to tear her gaze from it.

Finally - hesitantly - he speaks, tightly gripping the strap of his backpack. “Can I come in?”

She tilts her head, a little dazed. “What for,” she asks, cigarette still between her teeth. She clamps down on it a little harder.

“To talk. Explain myself,” Cullen is staring at the ground between them, worry creasing his features. “This is not how I intended things to go.”

“You and her,” Amell drawls. “How long?”

“What?” Cullen looks up. “Me and - you mean -”

“Yes.” A pained hiss. “You can be honest with me, it’s not like we’ve known each other very long.”

His eyes widen, just so. “No, that’s not - you’ve got it wrong. I don’t - she’s an old friend. Alistair was my - we went to school together -”

“You lied about last night.”

He stops, swallowing. Her eyes fall on his throat, bobbing. God damn it. “I did,” he concedes, quiet. “But it’s not what you think. Listen - just. Look, I borrowed your things, let me just return them.”

There’s a desperate keening in his voice, in his eyes. She steps aside, relenting, relieved she still manages to keep her balance even in the heights of marijuana. He moves over to the couch, props his bag on top of it, and pulls out her things - brushes, paints, palette. He’s kept them well. Good. She’ll flay him alive if he had mistreated them.

Then again, he’s not the sort to mishandle anything. She loathes how much she trusts him.

She shakes her head, pulling the cigarette from her lips. Enough of this. She places it in the ashtray on the dining table, watching him pull out his own sketchbook. Reminded strangely of herself, really.

“I was with her - at her place,” he says, turning towards her. “Working on something. For you. And obviously, I wasn’t going to ask you for help.”

She raises a brow. His words are sobering - somewhat. Still, she says nothing and waits. He flips it open, runs through the pages, searching for something - ah. He’s found it. He approaches her, tentative, and shows her what’s on the page. Brown hair, a defiant smile and - daisies in her hair. Oh.

Herself.

She tilts her head, squinting, pretending to get a better look. “You - what,” she dumbly says. “That’s me.”

“So it is,” he says, laughing breathlessly. “What do you think?”

The sight of it makes her chest hurt, and she wants to laugh out loud, but there’s no real reason to. She just takes the book out of his hands, runs her thumb over the dried paint, tracing the girl’s jaw line, admiring the flowers in her hair -

“You just -”

“From what I remember of you,” he murmurs. “When you’re away. It’s - well. I see you in my head quite a bit. Thought you should know.”

She drops the book onto the couch, fixated on him. Adoration unhidden in the curve of his mouth. Not quite what she expects - not at all, really - but she doesn’t complain, doesn’t make an effort to figure him out. She wraps her arms around his neck, pulling him down to kiss him. Affirming. He answers in kind, arms wrapped around her waist, and he lifts her into the air - her head is swimming, with him, with the distant scent of daisies.

She decides she’s perfectly fine with this.

**Author's Note:**

> And just so everyone knows: commissions are still open! Find me on twitter at @KNlGHTCAPTAIN (that's a small L in the knight, there).


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